Future of the mockingjay

Chapter twelve: Happy Birthday...?

"Haymitch! Get up already!" Peeta yells, banging on the door again. "For God's sakes man, it's almost seven!"

"He's not getting up anytime soon," I say, looking at my watch.

Peeta stares down at the wrapped box he's holding. "Should we just leave the present by the door, then?"

"Wait!" Haymitch yells, his heavy footsteps pounding the wooden floorboards as he runs to the door. He yanks it open and we are surprised to see him fully dressed with his hair gelled back and his beard trimmed.

"You bought me a present?" he asks, smiling at us.

"Way to keep us waiting, Haymitch," Peeta says as he hands over the box.

Haymitch weighs it in his hand and gives it a slight shake.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," I say.

"Something fragile, eh? Come in," he says, opening the door.

"You seem very... sober today," Peeta observes.

"Well, I wanted to fully appreciate my gifts," Haymitch says. "And besides," he adds, sitting down, "I'm going to get so drunk tonight I probably won't wake up 'til my next birthday comes."

"Go ahead," I say as Peeta and I sit across from him.

He tears apart the wrapping and slits through the tape with a knife neatly. After pulling away all the Styrofoam and extra paper, he lifts the glass into the air, watching as all the different colors danced around it in the light.

"A cup?" he says. He puts it down on the table.

"A mug, for your drinks," I say. "Look at the bottom of it, Haymitch."

He twists it around to see the delicate 'H' and 'A' carved into the glass. He runs his hand over it. "Looks expensive."

"Doesn't matter," Peeta says quickly. "It's your birthday anyways."

"Well thank you," Haymitch says, satisfied. "It's a fine mug and I'm sure the color will compliment the beer I plan to put in it tonight!"

"So where are we going, then?" I ask him, smiling. We had agreed to let Haymitch take us out tonight, to his favorite bar.

"After all," he had said, "this could very well be my last birthday." That had convinced us well enough.

"It's a fine bar," Haymitch tells us, getting up. "I just found it yesterday, and I swear, they have the best beers there."

We follow him into the Seam. Around this time, people are making their way to the new Hob, which was constructed right after District 12 was repopulated again. Instead of the old, abandoned coal warehouse it used to be in, a new building was made. This one had a wider, open space and could fit more shops, but the same feel of the old Hob was still there. Along with Greasy Sae, other popular sellers that had survived the bombing had come back and taken their place in the Hob.

Before the Hob was even in sight, I could hear the faint music and laughter echoing down the path. People streamed in from all alleyways, some just arriving and others stumbling around, already drunk. We turned the corner and there was the Hob.

The doors were held wide open, and you could see it totally packed inside. Lights were flashing everywhere and people were all chattering, creating one big hum of noise that rang through my ears. Haymitch's eyes gleamed, his lips curving up into a smile; he was home.

We walk inside, following him as he makes his way to a man behind a counter. The man has thin brown hair that sticks to his forehead from the sweat. His shirt is stretched tight over his protruding belly, the buttons threatening to pop at any moment. He was busy filling up mugs with beer, handing them out to the people and shoving the coins into his pocket.

"Freddie," Haymitch greets, sitting down. We sit next to him, nodding at Freddie.

"Haymitch! You made it!" he says, slapping Haymitch's back.

Haymitch hands him his mug. "Fill 'er up!"

Freddie gives a low whistle, taking the mug and holding it under the flowing stream of beer.

"Hey, are you OK?" Peeta's voice asks over the noise.

"Why wouldn't I be?" I draw circles in the wooden counter with my fingertip.

"You just seem, I don't know... troubled," he says, struggling with the word.

I sigh.

Should I tell him?

It'll only make things more difficult; he doesn't need to be worried.

I should tell him.

"Peeta," I start, gathering the courage to look into his eyes, "it's, um, the...well, you see in the train...."

"Please, Katniss," he pleads, taking my hand.

It seems like the wrong place to be having this kind of conversation. The crowd is making me claustrophobic and the noise is just about to explode my eardrums. We shouldn't be discussing this in here; we should wait for home.

As if reading my mind, Freddie comes over and boisterously starts a conversation, interrupting us.

"So," he starts out, practically yelling at us, "are you two gonna have anything?"

"Um...." Peeta is unsure, still trying to coax the answer out of me.

"Don't worry," Freddie yells, "you take your time, folks!" He waddles over to the couple on the opposite side of the counter, slapping the man on the back and grinning widely. It seems like everyone knew each other here.

"Hey, you two lovebirds!" Haymitch yells, rather drunk. How many glasses has he gulped down already?

"It's my birthday, act like you're here to have a good time! Laugh! Drink! Party! Don't sit there like a bunch of clueless morons!" He stands up on the counter, wobbling a little bit. His shiny new mug is dangerously being swung about. "Did ya hear that evr'yone? It's my birthday today!"

"Haymitch," Peeta and I warn simultaneously.

"Another year ahead of me," he continues on with his drunken speech, walking along the whole counter now, "and more people to be met! But you know what the most important thing is?" His hand goes up and he points his mug towards the watching crowd, "More drinks! Ye-hah!"

Before his lips touch the mug's rim, his eyes roll back into his head and he tips over the counter, landing facedown into the dusty floor.

Bye-bye brand new mug and bye-bye Haymitch.